Alone again, again alone
by coeurgryffondor
Summary: Each and every one of the other nations has found their place in the world, happiness with and acceptance of who they are, what they look like, what they have done. And Vanya, well, he lacks all of that. / "But Let it Go, And You Learn" arc.


Author's note: « But Let It Go, And You Learn » arc. Look on my profile for the community with all the stories.

Last semester my bestie did the lighting for « bare » which is this fantastic musical that I want to do worked into a Gakuen Hetalia fic eventually. Among my favorite songs from that show is « A Quiet Night at Home », which kind of makes me think of Russia. If you want to hear it I'd suggest looking on YouTube for « bare: A Pop Opera - A Quiet Night At Home », 3:51, that's the version I have. It's such a beautiful song and I just can't handle it.

I'm sorry all my stories from Russia's POV are angsty. I swear, I have a not-angsty one coming! Eventually… (Gotta clear out the fanfic folder.)

* * *

**Alone again, again alone**

"Said the whore uncharacteristically," Vanya mutters under his breath to no one in particular as the meeting is adjourned, nations scattering quickly to leave for the night. It wasn't a full meeting, which meant Alfred was able to run his mouth more than usual. His words had been ironic in how hypocritical they were.

The Russian takes his time packing away his papers meticulously, listening to others speak around him in French and English, in Swedish and Danish, in Spanish and Italian. Soon enough there's no one around him left speaking until a handsome voice calls out, "Ivan?"

He's smiling before he looks up just to make sure the French nation believes the lie he is about to deliver. "You go ahead Francis, I'll be just a minute more. Enjoy your night." The beautiful blond smiles, winks, then leaves. His smile falls.

Vanya is the last one in the room, turning off the lights behind him.

* * *

A quiet night at home in his New York City apartment, an open but sparse space, white and bright in comparison to his gray and dull Moscow flat. After making a complicated dinner Vanya enjoys it at the table, paging through The New York Times before relaxing on the couch with a glass of wine. The television offers little company.

His friends are all out, doing their own thing, or still arriving to the meeting. Or at least he knew that was the case for the few nations Vanya could consider friends: Francis has a date with Arthur, Irunya was too busy to come out to the meeting, and Erzsi is still in Europe packing before her flight out arriving the next afternoon.

What a long list.

Tired with the television Vanya moves to unpack the box of things he had brought with him, mostly religious artifacts he loves more for their history than for their connection to a god he once believed in but knows beyond a doubt does not love him. But it's something to do before bed, ten at night still too early for even the Russian, all alone, to end the day.

Not that he'd want anyone to know how lonely he is; he detests more than anything else the worried glances, the sad sighs and attempts at words of wisdom. Each and every one of the other nations has found their place in the world, happiness with and acceptance of who they are, what they look like, what they have done.

And Vanya, well, he lacks all of that. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to go to bed early.

* * *

Laying in bed Vanya has a silent debate with himself. He isn't sad he keeps repeating in his mind, yet the words never leave his lips, never become real and thus true.

Why should he be sad? He was free to do what he wanted, he had a great apartment, in a few days he'd start a vacation with his sexy girlfriend, and his daughter and her family were all healthy and safe. Why should he be sad?

The truth is Vanya hates himself. Physically he feels he is a monster, with his large nose and fat body and everything wrong with mortals that none of the other nations incarnate possess. He is clearly a mistake, a malformed monster for an ill country, the external reflecting the internal.

No one wants him; even Erzsi had resisted in the beginning, and part of him fears the monotony of having her Russian lover is what keeps the Hungarian coming back. She still won't marry him and while he understands what she tells him when she tries to explain, he fears there's an unspoken reason deep down, a truth she won't say. Because no one else had ever wanted him and clearly that had meant no one ever would; she's the rare exception. Francis had tried to convince him otherwise years earlier but Vanya had seen through him, knew there was a pity there that he had wished wasn't ever present around him. He loves Francis like a brother and loves Erzsi like he's never loved another person, willing to do anything for her. Would they do anything for him too?

Of course not.

And why should they? He didn't deserve it; that was what Vanya hated most about himself.

* * *

By one in the morning he gives up on laying in bed, sitting in his chair and reading a book he knew Oxenstierna had read, one that Timo had mentioned the Swede loved passionately. And the first book in the trilogy is good; Vanya reads through it in one go, none of its abuse or torture stirring any emotion deep within the Russian. None of it was surprising because it had all been a normal part of the once-Soviet's life at some point.

Now he can at least follow some of the conversations others have with the Swedish nation about the books. Conversations Vanya listens to but never joins in on because he is not worthy, as evil and demented as the characters in the book.

After the epilogue he gets vodka.

* * *

The sunrise is watched from the couch, Vanya lost in memories of all the pain and suffering he has endured, all the times he is sure God turned away from him. He feels heavy, not in weight (which he is) but in baggage; it's not normal but he's not sure he wants to deal with his problems, not yet at least.

On the wall he can see a framed painting of a ballerina. Vanya loves ballet; it's probably the one passion he's always had, stronger than books and vodka and Erzsi. He likes to think that ballet has never judged him but once more he is unworthy of it, a horrible dancer meant only ever to watch and never to perform.

The Russian hurls the tumblr across the apartment; the glass smashing on the wall helps him ignore the tears streaming down his cheeks.

* * *

At least he's never asked why. There are some questions that have no answers, and Vanya accepts that he will never have a reason for why it was him all the steps along the way.

Eight in the morning on a Saturday; everyone's probably home by now. Timo has his husband and son, breakfast most likely being cooked up while the other Nordic nations come to visit. Francis will be watching Arthur sleep in his bed, Alfred passed out on a couch in his New York flat after having spent the night playing video games. Toris always liked to sleep in just on Saturday mornings; Feliks is probably with him, a lunch date set with the other Baltic nations.

They've all gone home.

His phone vibrates. He says nothing when he answers the call.

Several seconds of silence pass before a light voice asks seriously, "Another night of self-hate then Braginski?"

"Why do you love me?"

Erzsi sighs. "My plane leaves in a few minutes, not nearly enough time to tell you all the reasons."

"Alone again, I am again alone."

"You can be annoying when you wax on poetically you know," she chuckles. The Russian nation at least appreciates that the Hungarian is very rarely disturbed by his mood swings and strong personality, not the way she once was.

Vanya sighs, throwing his head over the arm of the couch. "I just want to live. Truly, really, thoroughly live, Erzsi." He can almost hear her smiling on the other side of her phone, the overhead announcing in a flat voice that boarding has commenced. "I don't want to just get by anymore."

There's the sound of rustling as she stands. "Ivan Braginski," she says in strong Russian, a language she rarely speaks in while in Hungary, "all these years we've spent together and you brush them off? I tell you I love you and you ask why I won't marry you? You have friends and a family who care for you and yet you ask why you're alone? You live in your mental jail Vanya, but you are no longer a prisoner."

"I hate myself," he admits quietly.

"I love you enough for the both of us," Erzsi finishes in just as hushed a voice. "I'll see you in a few hours."

* * *

Alone again, again alone. Leaning against the counter Vanya drinks straight from the milk, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. The Russian knows there are a few truths that he cannot deny:

He loves to read, to watch ballet, to escape.

He is rarely invited to join in on conversations.

His family is his and loves him deeply.

He has in Erzsi someone he can love and who loves him.

He is nowhere near a perfect human being.

And no one, no one, can make Ivan Braginski go lie down and admit defeat.

Maybe another quiet night at home had been just what the doctor's order as he goes to get dressed for his trip to the airport.


End file.
